


F/action

by TheDeathEcchi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark, Fantasy, Horror, Multi, Science Fiction, Supernatural - Freeform, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDeathEcchi/pseuds/TheDeathEcchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The purpose of a backslash is to separate a file and folder. A great power that bridges the world between one and a potential one million. But the world has little mode of dealing with this power, and there are many who would see it gone. Yes, that is the F/action. The separation of file and folder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At First Light

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you who know me from tumblr might've seen this floating around a little. I'll be perfectly honest, this is the first time I've written a multi-chapter story where I have no idea where it's going. But it's my own original work, and I'm hoping you'll give it the tiniest of shots. Fair warning: it's gonna to be dark. It's gonna be fucked up. It's gonna be sad. There will be tender moments, and heartbreaking ones as well. There will be moments where my mental stability (and maybe even yours) might be brought into question. And I won't pander and say that reading it will change your worldview or whatever.
> 
> I'll let you decide that for yourself.

The door to the grubby tavern opened, the jingling of the bell almost inaudible against the raucous brawling, roaring, laughing, and yelling within. The stranger strolled in, unnoticed, brown hoodie blending in seamlessly with the filthy backdrop of the hovel. Hendrix blared from a broken jukebox in the corner, the music skipping every few seconds. There were three TVs near the back wall; two broken, one cracked, but still in enough condition to garner attention. A game was playing, either baseball or golf; it was hard to tell with the shattered glass. 

"Gin and tonic." spoke the stranger as he took a seat at the bar. After a moment of thought, he added "No ice."

The barkeep, a sickly, grey lump of a man who would look more at home beneath a bridge than behind a counter, hacked loudly before spitting into a glass, wiping the inside with a grimy rag. "Ain't got no gin. No tonic, neither. Jus' beer."

The stranger held back a sigh, drumming his fingers on the table. "Guinness Stout, then?"

The barkeep grunted an affirmative, setting down the mug, pulling a new one from beneath the counter, and began filling it with a tap. "Ain't from 'round here, are ya?" rumbled the barkeep, his voice reminding the stranger of the sound tires made when they ran over gravel. Before he could reply, one of the members of the smaller bar fights behind him fell forward, likely from a well-placed punch, and gripped the stranger's hood for impromptu support, yanking it back.

Immediately, the chatter and rowdiness in the bar ceased. All eyes were on the stranger, particularly the back of his caramel-colored neck. Three backslashes, nestled just above the nape, almost like a birthmark. But it wasn't natural. They knew.

They all knew.

"Holy fuck, it's one-a them!" exclaimed a patron, pointing a shaky finger. 

"Don't believe it. He ain't real. He can't be."

"Motherfucker's got some stones to just waltz right in 'ere.."

The stranger sighed, but didn't pull his hoodie back up; no point in hiding it now. Better to just see how the evening played out. "I don't want any trouble." he replied, voice weary, the bags in his brown eyes more prominent now that his youthful face was exposed. He ran a hand through his short black hair, scratching at an itch. 'Mental note; get conditioner.' "I'm just here for a drink."

He was promptly spun around into the sneering face of a patron, a beefy hulk of a man with as much neck as a barrel, and the chest to match. He easily towered the stranger, and if the barkeep was a troll, this person was definitely evocative of a giant. "Well, trouble's what you got, runt." he snarled, and the stranger exhausted nearly all his willpower not to wrinkle his nose; sulfur and landfills could take cues. "That's unless you take your sorry-ass carcass outta here." The other bargoers murmured in agreement, though stayed a considerable distance back; though they shared the larger man's sentiment, they clearly didn't share his bravery. Or stupidity. It was a thin line.

"I'll leave as soon as I'm finished drinking." the stranger replied coolly, turning himself back around, only to be met with the barrels of a shotgun. The barkeep's hands were shaking as he held the weapon, and sweat trickled down his brow. He was terrified, but though the weapon would provide some security. Foolish.

"Y-You'd best get the hell outta here." he managed, hefting the gun higher. "It's one thing if yer a nigger, but I ain't serving no Faction."

That word, that single word, sliced at him like a blade of tempered steel. Racial slurs were one thing. He'd heard them all his life. But that designation...Faction. Just hearing it made him sick. "My money's as good as anyone else's." he replied evenly. Thankfully, the bar was so focused on his backslashes they failed to see his clenched hand, the knuckles turning white.

"Not here it ain't!" snapped back the barkeep. "Ah already toldjya once! I ain't gonna say it a second time! G'on, git!"

The stranger regarded the barkeep with cold, brown eyes. "Not even a shot?"

"I'll give ya a shot if you don't take yer nigger Faction ass outta my goddamn bar!" Adrenaline ruling more than common sense, the bartender proved his point by lightly smacking the barrel against the boy's temple.

Silence.

The stranger stared at the barkeep for a full minute before sighing and getting up. "Sorry for upsetting you. I'll take my leave."

"Oh, no ya won't." chuckled the large man from earlier. Snapping his fingers at a crinkly, scraggly wraith of a man, he commanded, "Pete, lock the door." "Got it, Marv." came the reply, the sound of a bolt sliding shut immediately following.

The boy stood in place, head lowered. "I said I don't want trouble. I'll take by thirst elsewhere."

"Don't think you're going anywhere, Faction." the giant replied, rearing a fist back.

That was the last straw for him. The backslashes on the back of his neck flashed bright red before exploding into a blinding scarlet glow that enveloped the bar.

 _[I hear the call, and shall offer my grace.]_ The voice was the same as it was; warm, comforting, serene, like the caress of a lover. 

She was here. 

"He's fucking doing it!" shouting Marv just as the barkeep fired the shotgun. The bullets barely managed to reach the stranger before turning to ash. The gun followed, disappearing before the barkeep's eyes. With a frightened yell, he dove beneath the counter.

"GET HIM!" At Marv's call, the patrons dove at the boy. Just as one reached him, a single line appeared along his body before he was split cleanly down the middle, the two halves falling on either side of the boy.

"JESUS CHRIST!!" screamed Marv, his tough-guy act giving way to terror. As more patrons attempted to tackle the boy, the scene was repeated; lines appearing along their bodies before they suffered neat bisection. So clean were the cuts that there was no splatter, no fountains of blood from what should've been a horrifically gory act. The boy stood still, unblinking as more people three themselves at him, each thinking he would be the one to make the boy stop.

Mere minutes passed before the bar was silent once more, bodies scattered around the boy's form. The hovel now resembled some sort of decrepit butcher shop from the lowest circle of hell. 

In the corner sat Marv, emptying the contents of his stomach and bladder onto the floor, tears flowing freely from his raw-red eyes. "Oh, Jesus, oh fuck, oh Jesus, oh, FUCK..." Ignoring him, the boy turned and made his way back to the counter. 

"Hey." Shaking like a leaf, the bartender rose, refusing to meet the boy's gaze. "Sorry...bout your bar." Reaching into his pocket, the boy produced a single gold coin, three backslashes engraved onto the back. "This should cover it. Oh, and one more thing."

He extended a hand and tapped the barkeep's temple, his eyes immediately glazing over. "I was never here."

The barkeep nodded dumbly before collapsing onto the floor. The stranger walked back to the door, the bodies around him beginning to vanish in clouds of red smoke. When he reached Marv, he pressed a finger to his temple as well. "I was never here." He too nodded before collapsing.

"Almost forgot..." he mumbled as he rose. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands together and bowing his head in prayer. "I give thanks for your blessings and strength." The backslashes on his neck flickered, almost in response. Satisfied, the stranger left, the scent of blood still lingering on his nose.

**END**


	2. Though I Cannot See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never left. And I'm sorry.

The knife was cold and sharp against her throat. The man before her, face hidden by both his mask and the shadows of the alley, licked his lips hungrily, ravenously, keeping his hand against her mouth. She shivered, breath hitching as he pressed the blade harder. "Scream and I'll kill ya." he rasped, nicking her a little. The girl nearly convulsed as she felt blood seep from the cut. But she nodded to show she complied, terrified of what would happen if she didn't.

He moved his hand from her mouth but kept the knife steady, pulling down the zipper of her jacket."Very nice..." he croaked, giving her breasts a squeeze. A tear fell as she whimpered, stomach churning in disgust. "You're a brat but you've got tits like a lady. Bet all the guys love these jugs, don't they?"

Her throat was dry; she couldn't answer. Oh, if only she had decided to take her normal route home...

His hand moved down her chest, past her slim tummy, to the waistband of her skirt. "What is it with chicks and pink?" he snapped, pulling down the garment. With a grunt, he tore it off her and cast it aside, all but drooling at the sight of her blue panties, contrasting against her flawless, pale skin. 

"Spread 'em." He commanded. She shook her head slightly, earning a slap from her assailant. "I said 'spread 'em', you fucking bitch, don't get smart with me." Sobbing, she parted her legs, slowly at first, only to have them pulled apart by the impatient attacker.

"Heh, heh, yeah..." he breathed, slipping a hand between her legs. "Show me what you've got going on down there." He pinched her thigh slightly, making her whimper. "Hey, bitch, tell me you like it."

She remained silent, save for a sob or two escaping her quivering lips.

The man slapped her again, harder this time, and the girl knew she'd get a bruise. Her glared hard at her, looking into her green eyes. "Not gonna ask you again." For emphasis, he dragged the knife barely a centimeter across her neck.

"...I..." she managed to squeak out in a high, shaky voice. "I..."

"Get on with it, whore." he snapped.

A choked sob escaped her lips, her voice cracking as she tried to speak. "I...I..."

 _[I hear the call, and offer my grace.]_ Sweet. Gentle. Clear. Protective and calm, like an older brother.

The rapist barely caught sight of a flash of blue from the inner thigh if his would-be prey before he screamed in agony. His yes felt as though they had been doused in acid. His vision blurred and swam before red was all he could see; every blood vessel in his eye was dissolving, his eyes turning to slush in their very sockets. He screamed and released his captive, slashing at things that weren't there, howling in pain as the girl fell to the ground, curled up, and sobbed.

It wasn't just his eyes now. His skin, his bones, every part of him seemed to be breaking down. Cold, an unnatural, damning cold overtook him, chilling him to his very soul. With a strangled cry he fell to the ground, the knife slipping from the lumpy, formless mass that was once his hand. The girl waited several minutes before peeking out from her brown bangs, eyeing the mash of flesh before her. Shakily, she cupped her inner thigh, running her hand over the single backslash there. 

"Th-thank you." she whispered, eyes stained with tears and heartbeat slowly returning to normal.

Spotting her discarded skirt, she picked it up and produced a compact sewing kit from her schoolbag. Threading the needle, she set to work, barely noticing the wound on her neck had already healed, nor the backslash on her thigh glittering blue, as if in approval.

**END**


	3. Don't Come Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I remember you. I'll never forget.

Dr. Kendra Westfield let out a resigned, pained sigh as she stared at the corpse laid upon the slab before her. Tired, haggard eyes took in the sight of deep knife wounds and scorch marks, and dozens of other signs of abuse coalescing to form a horrific mosaic of cruelty. 

The girl’s soft, brown eyes, which had once been vibrant, full of life and wonder, were now dead and glazed. Never again would they see the morning sun rise, or her mother welcoming her home. Never would this child again feel the sun on her milk-white face, nor the wind in her auburn hair. 

More than horrifying, it was sad. So much youth and promise, snatched away forever by a lunatic that even now prowled the streets free and clear.

"I’m getting too old for this shit." she spoke to the empty morgue. Cursing very rarely became her, but her job was demanding as of late, and after weeks of seeing corpses of little girls paraded before her like a slideshow, it felt good, a little sobering, even, to snap out at the world. This sick, depraved world that seemed so keen on topping itself with its methods of brutality and wanton destruction.

Reaching into her coat pocket, she fished out her tape recorder, clicking the button on the top. “Victim is a female Caucasian of approximately seven or eight years of age, reddish-brown hair and brown eyes. Victim has suffered what appear to be several knife wounds about the neck, chest and hip. Scorch marks are also present, concentrated on the arms and navel.” She clicked off the recorder for a moment to grip her forehead and take a cleansing breath, clicking on the device again. “Victim…has also suffered what appears to be severe trauma of the genitals, most likely from a blunt object. Victim also has several rope abrasions on the wrists, waist, legs, and ankles, suggesting she was bound for a lengthy period.”

Kendra felt the bile rise in her throat, and she had to grip the slab to steady herself. A shudder escaped her body, and though she quickly managed to control herself, she still felt sick to the pit of her stomach. “Victim’s injuries are consistent with those of previous Back-Alley Bastard victims.” 

She nearly spat the serial killer’s moniker out; the vicious animal that had turned the city, _her_ city into a nightmare zone in just two short months, racking up a body count of seventeen. His victims were always found in back alleys of the sprawling burg, out of sight from the world, cast aside until some poor soul happened upon them by chance. What he did to those girls filled Westfield with as much rage as fear. It was horrible to think it, but she was thankful she didn’t have kids. They shouldn’t be put through something like this. No one should.

"Fuck." she whispered, setting down the recorder, swallowing the dry lump in her throat. Trudging over to the water cooler, she poured herself a cup. Downing it in a single gulp, she pouted three more, the freezing liquid cooling her somewhat, though making the reprieve all the more bittersweet when she realized she still had a job to do. Another cup wouldn’t hurt.

As she reached for the spigot, she heard a rustling sound behind her. _'A gust of wind.'_ she thought, though her hand shook slightly as she filled her cup.

"Hello?"

Westfield dropped the cup, her formerly half-lidded eyes now wide to the point of bursting. A voice. Impossible. There was no one here but her.

Her and the corpse.

She shook her head furiously. No. Ridiculous. Just the wind again.

But the wind didn’t explain how she heard it again, louder, reaching. “Hello?”

She wouldn’t turn around. She’d seen enough horror movies to know what would happen if she did. Some demon or ghoul or specter would tear her asunder, dragging her screaming soul to the underworld or wherever unfortunate 35 year-old women went.

The sound of rustling reached her ears, followed by the sound of flesh hitting the sterile linoleum of the morgue. _'No. No, no, no, no. This can't be happening.'_ She squeezed her eyes shut. _'This isn't happening.'_

"Misth?" 

She felt her heart turn to ice. Delicate footsteps became louder as they reached her, until they did they did the most horrible thing they could ever do.

They stopped.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Westfield clenched her eyes so tight she felt her eyelids would rupture. Something had tapped her shoulder. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears, blood running colder than the water she had drunk or the air of the empty morgue.

"Misth?" Kendra shuddered, choking back screams and sobs. Turning around, resigning herself to her fate, she nearly screamed bloody murder at the sight.

The girl, who had been on the slab nearly moments before, now stood before her, regarding the terrified Kendra with a curious look. Though she had been dead for nearly three hours, she looked in perfect health. Gone were the scorch marks and abrasions, her eyes had returned to their bright state, and even her cheeks were rosy in hue, a sure sign of her vitality.the sheet that she had been covered in was wrapped around her, and she was shivering, no doubt from the cold.

"Oh, Jesus Christ." whispered Kendra, unable to believe what she saw in front of her. She was dead. There was no pulse when they’d brought her in. She was as dead as the other girls that had wheeled in here for her to look over, to tell them things they already knew about the monster who had ripped the life from so many other girls. She was dead. And yet here she was, standing before her, shivering from the cold, and very much alive.

"I’m cold." she said, following her declaration with a short sneeze and a sniffle. 

Her brain finally kicking in, she sprung to her feet and rushed to the supply closet, grabbing a thick, woolen blanket and wrapping it around the girl. She stopped shivering and snuggled into the blanket, a smile crossing her face. “Thankth, misth.” she said, and at the sight of the girl’s innocent face, Kendra felt her heartbeat slow.

"Where are we?" she asked, looking around. "Isth thith a big refrigerator?"

Kendra let out a wry chuckle. The silliness of the question dispelled the last of the darkness in her mind that this was some sort of terrible nightmare. “No, dear, it’s a—” She paused. “—place. For people.” She’d hope the little girl wouldn’t ask too many questions; she didn’t exactly feel like explaining the purpose of a morgue to a dead child.

She nearly burst into laughter at the absurdity of that statement. The irony was too rich.

"Who are you?" asked the little girl, wiping her nose. 

"I-I’m Kendra Westfield."

"…Who am I?"

The question didn’t shock Kendra nearly as much as the answer: she didn’t know. The girls were never found with any form of identification on them, and tracking down the parents took days, just long enough for a new victim to appear. 

"Um…" Kendra searched her brain for a name, any kind of name. "Jenny. Your name’s Jenny."

The newly-dubbed Jenny stared up at Kendra, brown eyes sparkling. “Are you my mommy?”

Kendra stared back at Jenny for what seemed like ages. Were you to ask her to this day what had caused her to make such a life-changing decision, she couldn’t provide a suitable answer, save that it just felt like the right thing to do.

"Yes." Kendra spoke, hugging Jenny close to her chest. Though she couldn’t feel the child’s heartbeat, she felt warm all the same, and smiled as she felt Jenny’s arms wrap around her waist. "I’m your mommy." As Kendra patted the girl’s hair, she noticed something in the part between the reddish-brown locks.

Two backslashes.

**END**


	4. Mi Parabla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your back is the one thing I will always have.

Michael Dunbartin looked out the window of his penthouse in disdain. It seemed almost ironic, hilariously so, that he should live here, in this monument to the gods, this symbol of wealth, power, and influence, only to have to constantly overlook the squalor beneath him.

Derelict buildings and vagrants stood in the shadows of this architectural behemoth, their blacks and browns mixing with dull grey to form a river of filth, as if to insult the gleaming gold and marble of his dwelling.

"Disgusting." he spat, wrinkling his nose as if the very smell of the city’s dregs had risen up to assault him personally, bushy grey mustache wrinkling. Michael was a man who believed in three things; himself, money, and the power it held over others.

A man of wealth and taste, fortune had come unto him from many years of clawing his way to the top in the stock market; he had worked hard, and had accrued more than untold millions, but a name for himself in this city. His was a name to be feared, respected, revered, and before him, there were but two choices; submit, or become another of the city’s unmentionables, destined for a life beneath their superiors. 

His very appearance was one that exuded dominance. At 5’9”, he wasn’t tall, and his rotund, stocky figure didn’t instill fear, but he still managed to radiate an aura that seemed to reach the heavens itself. His suits, often so crisp and sharp they looked as though they could slice diamond, were more status symbol than clothing, their immaculate thread count both comforting for him and humbling for all who dared gaze. His shoes were always polished until they were gleaming, grey-black hair slicked back, and fingers decked with no less than several hundred grand worth of jewels at a time. Were Plutus alive in this age, next to Michael Dunbartin, he would appear a pauper.

Deciding he could take no more of the sight, he strode to his desk, pulling out a box of expensive Cuban cigars, along with a bottle of Duggenfield, his preferred brand of bourbon. The cigars were three grand a box, if they could be found at all, and the liquor at two grand, and worth every penny. Cutting the cigar and pouring a glass, he flicked on the television, preparing to settle into his evening routine, when what he saw caught his eye.

"We come to you live from downtown Voit," spoke the pretty brunette frantically, as though she had been in the center of whatever incident had occurred. "Where yet another case of arson has been discovered. The victim, Tyler Daily, was found dead in his home…"

Her words became background noise as Michael eyes’s widened. Tyler Daily. An old associate of his who had helped him in his early years. The man had contacts, influence in this city, enough to move mountains, and enough subtlety to do it without anyone being the wiser. He had enemies because of this, however, and was cautious, perhaps to the point of paranoia. Getting the drop on such a man was not easy. 

Slowly, the newsgirl’s voice faded back in. “…we’ve just discovered something left at the scene.” Motioning for someone offscreen to enter, a firefighter stepped into frame, holding up a large piece of black paper that had somehow remained untouched in the fire. What was written on it made him gasp.

His name, in large, blocky white letters.

"As we all know," continued the newsgirl. "Michael Dunbartin is one of the most powerful men in the city. A stock market mogul with ties to the community. It is unknown at this time if this message was a plea for help or a threat. The possibility that Dunbartin was involved in this fire also stands. We’ll have more developments for you as—" 

He clicked off the TV, setting down the remote with a trembling hand. His alibi was solid. He’d been at a fundraiser the night before, and had mingled plenty. But still, the shock of seeing his name on that paper at the scene of an arson was unsettling, as was the death of his colleague. The two were no doubt connected. A call-out? From who?

Shaking his head of such ridiculous notions, he took a sip of his bourbon and a puff of his cigar. “Probably just a bunch of fire-happy spics raising hell.” he grumbled in his gravely, rumbling voice. “Oughta pack the whole lot of ‘em and ship ‘em back to where they came from.”

"Well, it’s kinda humid this time of year. The weather’s much better here."

Michael leapt out of his seat as he turned to face the voice. There, sitting on his couch as though he had been there all along, was a young man, no older than twenty, in a dull grey jacket and ripped black jeans. In his hand was one of Michael’s prized cigars, and the stranger took a drag, puffing out a ring of smoke. From his skin tone, the elder man guessed he was of Latino descent, and through the folds of his jacket, he could see several tattoos, gangland badges of honor that let others know he was not to be trifled with.

"You—how the fuck did you get in here!?" bellowed Michael, hand reaching for his security button. The youth’s eyes flashed yellow for the briefest moment as he stood, cigar still in hand. 

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you." he spoke in a cool Latino accent. Ignoring his words, Michael pressed the button.

A searing pain shot through his arm, as though his very blood had burst into flame. The penthouse echoed with his screams of pain as he fell to the floor, clutching his arm. “Christ Almighty!”

The youth rose from his spot on the couch, sauntering over to the writhing Michael. “I’d get used to that feeling, _hombre_ , ‘cuz I’ve just started with you.” His eyes flashed yellow once more.

Michael screamed as his other arm burned with pain, and he could swear he saw smoke billow from his fingernails. “What the hell are you doing!?” The socialite screamed. 

"This is revenge, yeah?" spoke the boy, kneeling down to meet Michael. "Just desserts, what’s coming to you, tit for tat; take your pick, there’s plenty of sayings in the world."

The boy didn’t look familiar. Then again, these people all looked the same to him. And the _pain_ , his very bones trembling with heat. “Revenge?” Michael managed to groan out against the fiery sensation. “I…I haven’t done anything to you!”

He barely had time to see the boy’s boot come towards his face, striking him hard against the nose. He heard bone crunch and felt blood gush out, pain coursing through him. Michael cried out, trying to escape the boy’s kicks, to no avail. "Nothing to me?" snarled the youth, kicking harder and harder. " _Nothing to me_ , you piece of _shit!?_ ” He pronounced 'shit' with a hard ‘ch’ sound. Definitely not American-born.

Eventually, he stopped kicking, leaving Michael’s face a bruised, bloody mess. The mogul groaned weakly, barely able to see through his swollen eyes. Why was this happening to him? He had to think; who had he wronged? The list was long; he’d made enemies in this city. He’d stabbed his fair share of backs. But that was just how you survived here. Even a concrete jungle was still a jungle, and the law was the same whether you were swinging from vines or catching the ‘D’ train; eat or be eaten.

"You don’t even remember me." scoffed the boy, grabbing Michael by his hair and yanking him up. The burning sensation still persisted in his arms, which hung limply at his side. He felt nothing, nothing except that damning feeling as though his arms were trapped in a lit grill.

"Why should I?" Michael managed to croak out, narrowing his eyes. This was the end for him, he knew. But he wouldn’t go down weak, begging. No, that was a special honor deserved for the people who crossed him. "All you fucking spics look alike." As a last act of defiance, he spat at the boy, relishing the sight of his own blood painting a jagged line across his face.

To his utter shock, the boy laughed. He laughed loud, mockingly, condescendingly,which was more painful to him than the vicious beating he’d suffered only moments ago. “Big _cajones_ on you, Dunbartin. I’d admire that if you weren’t such a bastard.”

With a grunt, he threw Michael back, the man’s head colliding with the leg of his desk. “You say you don’t remember me, eh? Don’t even remember little Javier Alviso.”

In that instant Michael Dunbartin’s heart nearly stopped cold. That name. No. It was impossible. It was a trick, it had to be. He couldn’t be here.

Michael managed enough strength to look up at the boy, taking in his features. A smooth face with a square jaw. Short black hair and brown eyes. A thin, wiry body. It was a trick. Just some random thug passing himself off as someone who shouldn’t—no— _couldn’t_ be here. 

That’s what Michael thought, until he saw the bullet hole in his head, just above the right eye.

It was him. It was Javier.

"Ah…" drawled the youth, seeing the horrific, realizing look in Michael’s face. "So you _do_ remember.”

It had happened years before, so long ago that he had pushed the memory into the farthest corners of his mind. He was just another sap he had used in one of his many schemes to further his own wealth and power, then tossed to the streets like trash. He’d thought nothing of it. Until he had heard the news report later that he’d shot his wife, infant son, and then finally, himself. 

The man was Hector Alviso. And his young son was Javier.

"Did this give it away?" smirked Javier, pointing to the bullet hole, from which smoke was now billowing. "You ruined my dad, broke him apart, but he couldn’t touch you. No, what could a lowly accountant do against the great Michael Dunbartin? So he took it out on mama. And me. And himself." Smoke was coming out in a thick plume now. "Not exactly the best coping method."

Javier crept over to Michael, kneeling down to meet him. “But you know what was the worst part? No Pearly Gates for me. No choir of _angeles_ , uh-uh. See, papa wasn’t too big on the good book. Oh, he was a good man; church on Sunday, sure, but that was as far as it went. No baptizing. No confession. Same went for me. Guess what that means? When he shot me…well…” Javier chuckled as he pointed to his bullet wound, still billowing smoke. “You’re a smart man. You can figure it out.”

"But see..." Javier continued, wagging his finger. "Someone down there was looking out for me, right? Saw the potential I had. And he struck up a deal. I can come back, so long as I carry out his will."

"What are you?" rasped Michael. "A ghost? A demon?"

"Ay yi yi, you concern yourself with too many details, _hombre_.” snickered Javier. “Tell you what.” The boy’s face was grim now. He stood, regarding Michael like he himself regarded those he considered his lessers. It wasn’t just his arms now; his whole body began to blister and crackle, as though her were over an active volcano.

"When I send your ass to hell, you can ask the big guy yourself. Give him my best."

-/-/-/-/-

Sighing, Javier pulled a black cap onto his head to hide the bullet hole, stepping down the stairs of Michael Dunbartin’s enormous hotel. As he passed, people, well-dressed people, regarded him with disdain and contempt, one even spitting in his direction. But he ignored them all, heading down the street, keeping an eye out for a cab.

The four backslashes against his collarbone flickered yellow for a moment, becoming dormant once more.

**END**


End file.
